


No Mistletoe Needed

by misswatsonholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little bit of plot, Build up, Christmas, Christmas at 221B Baker Street, FWP, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Second Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:56:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5522807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misswatsonholmes/pseuds/misswatsonholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally, it was just the two of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Mistletoe Needed

**Author's Note:**

> Just a simple little ficlet that I wanted to write in order to lift my Christmas spirits. I hope you guys like it. :)

It wasn’t that Sherlock hated Christmas. Sherlock had loved Christmas as a young boy, being flooded by gifts and all of his favourite meals combined in two lovely, lovely days. He hated what Christmas represented later in his life, ever since he moved out of the house in order to study abroad. He hated the boarding school he was raised, hated how his French co-students never seemed to be impressed by his smartness. In fact, not only did they not notice Sherlock’s impressive brain, they decided to thoroughly ignore his existence.

Christmas had always been lonely for Sherlock Holmes – until, finally, John Watson came along.

Sherlock pretended to hate their first Christmas together. He tried not to seem too amused at his own reflection with deer antlers on as he stared at himself through the mirror – only for John’s eyes to meet his own for a short while and an inevitable smile escape both their lips. He pretended to be annoyed at the conversation and, if it hadn’t been for the strange – devastating – news of The Woman, that Christmas might have been one of the best ones of Sherlock’s life. 

Sherlock went back to hating Christmas after The Fall. The two years spent running were fast, hard, painful years in which time didn’t make a difference, but, at the same time, a second spent the wrong way meant his probable death. In many nights, Sherlock wished he could just go back to 221b, to his old life, to John. The horror that passed through his chest the moment Sherlock noticed that Christmas had already passed without him even noticing was something he couldn’t forget. He imagined what John had done, and hoped for all the inexistent gods that his good doctor was fine.

What Sherlock didn’t expect for the two subsequent Christmases, however, was Mary. Mary, with her undeniable charm and sense of humour that uncovered Sherlock from the layers he had built around himself – even tighter after the fall –, Mary, with her way of pushing John away. And, lastly, the same Mary, with her lies and secrets up her neck, brought John Watson back.

Finally, it was just the two of them.

Sherlock made sure to push away any of Mrs Hudson’s attempts to a party, because now Christmas meant something different – it was the anniversary of Sherlock shooting Magnussen, the anniversary of when everything began to change. It was all much simpler now, like in the beginning. Sherlock felt himself melting into that same behaviourism with John as his flatmate, sharing meals, cases and nights without sleep, and, eventually, a kiss on the threshold of Sherlock’s bedroom.

It had been exactly a week, and Sherlock could feel the tension creeping through every single move he or John did around the flat. His throat got dry whenever they locked eyes and he could deduce from the way John’s Adam’s apple moved that the doctor felt the same way. Neither moved closer, ever, after that one kiss. Sherlock knew John hadn’t given up, no, John would never do that. They were buying themselves time to think, to swift into the new pattern of their lives.

Sherlock waited five years. He could wait for a few days, if necessary.

It was pouring with rain when the second kiss happened. They had shared a couple of glasses of wine, and the cracking noise of the fire was just as reassuring as the loud thunders and the heavy rain hitting the windows of 221b in that marvellous, warm Christmas Eve.

To Sherlock’s utter surprise John simply stood from his armchair and walked over him. John bent down, his thin lips forming a gentle smile as their heads got closer and closer.

“Hello.” John said. His words came out lower than usual, and Sherlock noticed how calm John was. It made his heart beat even faster. He put the almost empty glass of wine away without diverting his eyes from John’s dark blue ones.

“We’ve been in the same room for over an hour, John.” He said, very carefully, as if a single word said the wrong way could ruin everything from now on. “Is it really necessary for your first word to be ‘hello’?”

John smiled widely. It made Sherlock feel better.

“No, I suppose not.” John moved again, shifting the weight from one leg to the other almost uncomfortably. Sherlock, noticing the change in the balance of the doctor, cleared his throat and moved both legs tightly together just in case – if he were very lucky – John got the hint and straddled him.

Which John, to his utter happiness, did.

John’s strong thighs were pressed against the outside of Sherlock’s legs and even though they had many layers between each skin, Sherlock felt his body burn with a fire that hadn’t been ignited by the wine.

As a louder thunder struck very close to their surroundings, John shifted on Sherlock’s leg and placed both hands on his cheeks. Sherlock could feel John’s breath of the strong mixture of grape and wine and was enthralled by it. He loved every single inch of that man, and couldn’t believe he let himself wait for so long to have him this close.

“I want you to know what this kiss represents,” John said again, waking Sherlock from his trance of thoughts. Sherlock knew that from the face John made, he’d thought about the next words for a long while. “It’s, well. Me. Us. Together. If you want to. Because I do.”

Sherlock was ready for the words. He was pretty sure he was. Until John said them, and Sherlock’s eyes were suddenly too heavy for him to think. John’s eyebrows raised at the reaction and for a moment he thought of moving away. Sherlock gripped his waist tightly.

“I do. I want you, John.” Sherlock blurted out, feeling the weight of five years of sentiment being finally released from his body.

John’s smile was brighter than all the fairy lights in the room.

“Good.” John said. “I’m happy.”

He finally moved closer, kissing Sherlock tenderly on the mouth. Thick lips pressed against John’s thin ones, and both exhaled happily with relief. Sherlock felt so good, so joyful, like every lonely Christmas he spent in his life had brought him to that exact moment of him and John, there, with the fire and the rain and the reassurance that they would be together for as long as they could both breathe.

They kissed until the storm was over, and drank the rest of the wine sitting on the floor, their legs entwined together, their hands gently touching, caressing each other’s faces. They would have time for the rest, later. Now, it was perfect to just sit and kiss and be drunk in each other’s presence.

Christmas was good, after all.


End file.
